


Vice

by Parasomnia



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: AU, Abuse, Age Difference, Daddy Kink, F/M, M/M, Murder, Prostitution, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Slurs, Substance Abuse, Suicide, all the angst in the world, everybody's terrible and nobody's likeable, look elsewhere for a happy ending, ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parasomnia/pseuds/Parasomnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The story of eight people's experience with addiction, sex, employment and murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday, September 7, 2007

**Author's Note:**

> The underage warning is for mentions of child pornography. All characters are 18+.

Winter's uncomfortable dampness replaced summer's humidity and melancholy among citizens had mushroomed. A perpetual layer of off-white overcast that only the city's inhabitants could perceive covered the sky, as if they all shared lenses of seasonal gloom. In contrast, the way tourists regarded this city, you'd think the streets were paved with two layers of gold. There was comfort, though, in Berlin's draining emptiness that spared tourists but was relentlessly thrust into the face of the city's permanent population. It reminded Riza not to make assumptions - a lesson she was forced to learn once she started working full-time.

It was here, in Berlin's ocean of muted colours and emotional desolation, that she had met brutal realization head-on. It wasn't cynicism. It was just observation. When you're pushing your mid-thirties, and you've finished enough post-secondary education that would buckle the knees of most undergraduates, you begin to feel out the limitations of your career. Dead-end was an understatement. Riza was drowning in her personal and professional life, and consistency was the best she could hope for. Riza studied the cracks in the asphalt covering Freie's campus, numb to the freezing temperature of the evening. Checking her watch wasn't necessary; she knew her chauffeur was late to drive her home from work again.

The path to the under-appreciated career of a university administrator was much more trouble than it was worth. With an M.A. in psychology, a four-year psychiatric residency and another four years of med school, Riza was prepared for a profession among psychiatry. Instead, she was working as a staff member in a university she had never enrolled in. Her enthusiasm was crushed like a paper cup and the bitterness numbed her taste buds. Riza was no sociologist, but she attributed a lack of privilege to missing the target she put her entire adult life into hitting. The glass ceiling was broken, but its shards marred her skin.

That target, had it been hit, would be useful lately. Despite her academic success, Riza's pay cheque had passed through her fingers from her employer to the casino for the past six months. Thrift stores and frugality didn't provide nearly enough capital to fuel her unyielding desire to brush shoulders with luck, just once, and be pulled out of her debt by her fingertips.

Riza traced the edge of one of the lottery tickets lining the inside of her coat pocket. To herself, she justified her addiction by deeming it just another form of entertainment. To others, she rationalized her lack of money by deeming it just another form of poor judgment and botched investments. "It may be a minor strain on my personal wealth," she'd tell herself, feeling the familiar warmth on the handle of a slot machine, "but inhibition of this habit would only be replaced with another." She never tired of reminding herself that she was practically a saint in comparison to the substance addicts that littered the city's streets, like opened pull-tab games littered her flat's foyer.

"Flu season already, huh?"

Riza was forcibly drug from her contemplation, suddenly aware of her persistent sniffling. She shifted her gaze from her only pair of dress shoes to the faux leather pair to her right. "Just been trying to keep my heating bill down." She smiled slightly, lifting her eye's sight to meet her companion's. "You never know how cold Berlin winter nights are until it's too late."

"Not your fault." Jean grinned, wrapping his arm around Riza's cloth-wrapped frame. "Any student hoping to graduate would have to be hit by a train before he decides to not show up to class. Illness is inevitable in this occupation." He applied gentle pressure to Riza's back in the vague direction of his campus parking spot.

Riza compelled her stiff legs to work. She attempted to keep a stoic expression and healthy posture to disguise her fatigue, caused both by her illness and depleted potassium levels. Unlike Riza, Jean never harboured extensive aspirations for his career, but like Riza, his aspirations were more of a disappointment than a reality. After receiving rejection letters from graduate programs for half a decade, he swallowed his pride, took educational training, and began working in Freie's psychology department. He stuck to teaching any class with material that's easy to regurgitate into students' ear canals. What Jean lacked in book smarts, however, he made up for in generosity. For someone leading a simple life with low expectations, wealth was less important than relationships. Riza ought to know; Jean had relieved her of previous credit debt and current public transit prices.

Riza lowered herself into the passenger seat of Jean's car, immersed in the nicotine scent that lingered there. She felt the weight of the car shift as Jean settled behind the wheel. "You don't have to do this," she told him, wrapping her arms around her persistently shrinking waist.

"Car-pooling is good for the environment," Jean murmured.

"My flat building is within walking distance."

"Your place is on the way to mine." Jean smirked at her before executing the customary routine of fastening his seat belt, starting the engine and powering the heating system to maximum, trying to thaw the frozen tomb of a vehicle.

Riza felt the car begin to move and exhaustion mounted. She sunk her shoulder blades into the nylon seat back. Argument was futile; Jean's charity was his favourite way of expressing his unconditional friendship. One too many glances into Riza's empty wallet had made Jean aware of her financial difficulties. He can be sharp when he wants to. His realisation was followed by offers of transportation, food, and (in a less subtle act of philanthropy) cash. Riza could remember a time when she was less willing to take advantage of somebody else's generosity.

"So." Jean's voice, rough from years of smoking, broke the silence within the car. "Feel like doing me a favour?"

Riza squinted at the road in front of her, suppressing the urge to glance at the convenience shop Jean drove past. "I certainly owe you one."

"Is there an opening for an instructor in the department?"

Riza lifted her head from the surface of her seat, twisting her neck to study Jean directly. "For who?"

"Technically, he has a Master's degree in criminology." Jean's fingers drummed against the steering wheel. "He wrote his thesis on delinquency among substance-abusing adolescents. But he's undergone psychopathology education. He finished BfV training and was working in Berlin for eight years until he was let go."

Riza scoffed, returning to the comfort of the headrest. "Must have fucked up pretty bad to get fired from BfV."

"He's capricious at times." Jean shot Riza a friendly grin, trying to seem unbiased about his friend's termination. "He says it was because of politics within the institution."

"Well, it takes a capricious person to say something like that," Riza sighed as they neared her locality. She was already holding onto her job by the skin of her teeth. Not even administration can get away with so many missed faculty meetings due to extended casino sessions.

"The department has a seminar course in deviant behaviour that hasn't been taught in years," he offered.

"Because of a lack of demand," she corrected.

"One does not demand that which does not exist." Jean stopped in the loading area of Riza's flat building. His hands slid from the wheel to rest limply in his lap. "He could conduct research, or co-lecture an introductory course, or something. The Freie psychology department needs more recognition among researchers. I'm just saying," he shrugged. "It'd be good publicity."

Riza knew it was true. Freie had been underrepresented in psychology scholarly journals for too long. Normally, she would jump at the chance to reimburse Jean for his consistent donations, but introducing his friend's position into the department while her own was in jeopardy wasn't appealing. That responsibility should be left to someone else. Anyone else. She placed her palm on the door handle beside her. "I'll think about it."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate it." Jean swept his gaze along Riza's body, resting on her thin calves covered by a single layer of dress trousers that fit looser by the day. By now, Riza was practically swimming in the clothes of her shrinking wardrobe. Jean was unusually perceptive within his interpersonal affairs, but Riza's physical deterioration was evident to more people than just him. "I could swing by the drug store and buy flu medication for you, if you like." Jean rose his eyes back up to Riza's. "I know you don't want to miss any more work."

Riza compelled a smile onto her lips that didn't meet her eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Mind if I ask how you got into gambling?" The question passed through Jean's teeth before he could halt it, restless after being suppressed in the depths of his mind for months. "You just never struck me as an impulsive person," he explained.

Riza's smile faded and she stared at the surface of the windshield. She didn't like thinking about it. Thinking about it made her more and more aware that her addiction was a detriment to society, even if it was legal. It was becoming apparent, despite her efforts to stifle the realisation, that her habit was no more admirable than an alcoholic's. "Initially, it was a hobby. But all habits are created with the fragments of hobbies broken by obsession and indulgence." She started to wring her hands. "One day, I looked at my bank account information and realised I was losing more money than I intended to. Now it's about retribution."

"What do you mean?"

"If I win, I won't be in debt anymore. All the lost money and time would be redeemed. And I have a better chance of winning if I play more." Riza couldn't help but chuckle at her own logic. "So I lose more money to play more games for a better chance at winning the money I'm losing." She looked blankly at Jean. She didn't expect him to offer comfort or justification. She knew that the lifestyle she had submerged herself in was absurd. The self-loathing encompassed her features. "I wish I could say I should have stopped while I was ahead, but I was only ever behind."

Jean could only offer a sympathetic expression.

"I'll see you on Monday." Riza abruptly exited the vehicle. She stalked toward the front door of her flat building, the car's headlights silhouetting her frame. She drew herself closer to the confines of her home, starving for its temporary solace.


	2. Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Every pair of eyes in the public train were focused on the collection of advertisements lining the interior of the compartment. Every hand gripped a paper coffee cup or portable music player. Every shoulder donned the strap of a bag containing glossy textbooks and empty notebooks. The first Tuesday of February marked the beginning of Freie's winter semester, and enthusiasm was deficient even among those with timetables starting in the late morning.

Edward sucked his teeth as he exited the train and joined the rest of the students diffusing within the station. His shoes felt like weighted shackles as he began to walk toward Freie's campus. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to relieve the tension being held there. Any time spent away from home was always accompanied with anxiety. He came to Freie loaded with student loans and scholarships, but studying part-time while searching for a job to support himself and Al limited the time he could spend supervising his brother. With his mother's death and his father's absence, a degree wasn't something Ed had previously thought to pursue, but education is an investment, and everybody needs money. Worse still, he abruptly switched majors one month ago, rendering his completed prerequisites useless and further prolonging his expected duration as an undergraduate. That, coupled with the loss of his most recent job, put him under an enormous weight of distress.

His brother's present life was the epitome of the traumatic stories non-profit organizations like to tell teenagers. Previously, Al's logic and sensibility surpassed expectations for a person of his age. Now, he was a slave to substance and the coercion of his own overwhelming id. Whatever hole Al had hoped to fill with heroin was now ripping at the seams with apathy and collapsed veins. He was swept in and out of rehabilitation centres before Ed offered him his only bed, where he spent most of his typical day, shooting up and nodding off. Trying to keep Al indoors for the sake of his own safety was ineffective; Ed couldn't be home constantly and Al would wait until he woke up alone to sneak off. Al refused to disclose the nature of the errands he'd run, and Ed learned to stop asking questions.

He and Al lived in the rented, unfinished basement of a house owned by a family who was never peaceful, overlooking a highway that was never quiet. Ed was thankful for a separate entranceway, but he didn't trust the renters enough to forego changing the locks upon moving in.

Being optimistic made the battle seem less vicious. During the nights, as Ed ignored the familiar sounds of domestic violence and traffic, he tried to be thankful that he could afford a home at all. When Al refused to eat, he tried to be grateful that he only had to pay enough to feed his own mouth. He was careful, though, to not let that optimism blind him; he could never hope to achieve anything unless he kept a realistic perspective of his current situation.

Discord flooded Ed every time he obeyed Al's demands to visit his dealer. Enabling Al's addition might be risky, but Al's withdrawal effects were scarier. It wasn't uncommon for Ed to arrive home after work to find Al unmoving on his bed, blissful in his self-induced coma. It was a normal occurrence to pry a syringe from his clammy grip, and relieve him from the confines of the sheets tangled around his limbs. Holding Al's limp body provided Ed with more despair than comfort, but he preferred finding his brother in a semi-conscious state than seeing him awake. The latter would force Ed to witness the substance eat at him from the inside. His eyes would be open but unseeing; his heart, beating but irregular; his mind, active but incompetent. Al had died long ago. The drug annihilated his mind and soul. All that remained was an empty shell of a human being.

But the disheartening reality of Ed's relationship with his brother was evident. Al could probably live without Ed if he filled himself with enough heroin, but Ed wouldn't be able to function if he lost Al. The proof was in the aftermath of Al's most recent near-death experience. The passing concept of Al's death regularly crossed Ed's mind since his brother began using, but that was the first time he seriously considered how he'd feel if Al were to actually pass away. Ed pushed the memories out of his mind. A stroke of luck had kept Al alive this long, and Ed was eternally indebted to it. It's funny how two wrongs sometimes make a right.

He reached his destination and took a moment to survey the building, shielded by a layer of fog. His gaze glided along the row of windows on the building's third floor before entering. He began to ascend its staircase.

\---

Lonesomeness filled the dimly lit single office, its atmosphere unfamiliar to Roy. Closed blinds covered the room's lone window and blocked the view of Berlin's grey winter sky. Lectures and discussions from nearby classrooms filtered through the ducts, combining to form a clutter of incoherent voices that amplified Roy's migraine. Distraction was unavoidable. If it wasn't from the building's poor sound insulation, it was found in the travel-sized bottles of mouth wash Roy kept in his desk drawer.

A closed office offered enough privacy to relieve Roy of the need to act out the physical movements of a responsible worker. Jean had correctly predicted Roy's lack of preparation for his first seminar and made it his business to organize the syllabus and discussion material. Roy made three attempts of reading the first paragraph before giving up and forgetting about it. Fuck it. There was no point in trying to be productive when he's so irritable from last night's binge. He could swallow his weight in water and never fully rehydrate. The thwarting recollection of his departure from BfV crushed any effort he made to be enthusiastic about his new line of work. He collected the memories of his former career as he stared, unmoving, at the surface of his barren desk.

At the time, he had worked within Berlin's BfV branch for nearly eight years. Mindless, unfulfilling work filled his usual days, at the demand of his superior. Under any other circumstance, he'd be annoyed at the inelegant nature of his labour. Such work was normally reserved for recently employed workers who still had something to prove to their superiors. But he could practically taste his next promotion, and every obeyed command brought Roy closer to it and its subsequent renown. After a particularly fruitless workday, he emerged from train station of his home's locality with a predisposed negativity, and made his way to the back door of his complex.

The flashbulb memory of what he witnessed upon entering the alley behind the complex would withhold peaceful sleep for the next month. The spilled blood added a coat of thick, cooling burgundy over the victim's dead body and the perpetrator's weapon-yielding hand. Previously, Roy had thought that BfV training and six years of studying criminology would have desensitized him. Media depictions of gore and death were too impersonal to prepare him for the trauma of observing an actual murder. Something inside him broke, punctured a hole, and all preservation of his own species oozed out.

Admitting to killing a man to his superior was only embarrassing. It was admitting it to himself that was demoralizing. The victim's own crime provided insufficient justification. There was no rationalization. There was only impulse.

Needless to say, the promotion that Roy had worked for was immediately torn from his grasp. He managed to construct an excuse of self-defense to protect himself from any significant legal trouble, but the publicity wasn't something his employer wanted to deal with. His boss became the target of his resentment, and his colleagues were mere sources of annoyance. But intoxication coated the inside of his veins with a soothing balm and temporarily alleviated his guilty conscience. First he was dragging Jean to the bar with him to supply cash and a sympathetic ear. Then he was smuggling vodka into his office. Deadlines came and passed. His coworkers pressured and his boss criticized, but it went unnoticed. His eventual termination was disheartening, albeit expected.

The financial hindrance didn't bother him. He could rely on Jean to pay his rent and bar tabs. However, Roy couldn't ignore the gaping hole where his pride used to be. Education is about establishing a career, and a career is about status and power. Roy could live off of power, but, by his own actions that stemmed from impetuously stabbing a murderer, Roy had joined the ranks of all the other unemployed failures in their thirties. Jean offered him a job at Freie after persuading the connections he had in administration, but it didn't stifle Roy's drinking. He knew it was only the mouth of the storm. Working among university faculty wouldn't dent his animosity. Soon, it would transform into another bout of hostility. His only option was to gather the remains of his former occupational glory with a single, trembling hand.

"Good morning."

The opened door of Roy's office broke walls of the privacy he had built, and the room's seclusion poured out into the rest of the building. Occupying the doorway was a blond creature threatening to infiltrate Roy's fortress of self-pity. He looked over the intruding figure and absorbed its aura. Its confidence was depicted by its domineering posture and the self-assured movements it made to enter the office, close the door, and inhabit the chair on the other side of Roy's desk. Roy could smell another man's vulnerability from a mile away, but the office was currently void of weakness.

"My name is Ed," it said. "I'm a third-year student. I recently declared a major in psychology."

Roy was never good company in the first place, but weeks of drinking alone in his dark flat had considerably damaged his ability to socialize. Now the challenge embodied the form of a student attempting to engage in conversation. Roy lowered his gaze to the only used drawer of his desk, denied of its original purpose of containing work paraphernalia. The alcohol within called to him. He felt his lips moving. "You're a third-year student who just declared a major?"

"I used to be in the geology program."

"You left geology for the social sciences?"

"Geology just wasn't for me." Ed was neither surprised nor offended by the older man's social ineptitude. He knew Roy was sitting at the bottom of the institution's hierarchy. Surely, that bruises one's pride; he didn't expect warmth. No matter. Ed had no plans to build a casual relationship with him. He knew what he needed to obtain from Roy, specifically targeted because the demands of a new job would make him easy to manipulate. The veteran instructors were like hardened clay unwilling to be moulded any further. Ed wagered that Roy, however, was relatively susceptible. "I wanted to discuss your research lab."

Roy began to tap his foot in aggravation, hidden underneath the desk. He was desperate for a drink. Surviving the cravings was more painful than succumbing to the appeal of the bottom of a liquor bottle, as long as he didn't have to admit it to anybody. "So you're saying you're looking for research experience," he mumbled.

"I'm saying I'm looking for a bit more than experience."

Roy groaned inwardly. "The demand for the position isn't nearly low enough to make me want to offer a salary to an undergraduate." He was already nursing a hangover, now he had to deal with job applications from a persistent student nearly half his age. It gnawed at his what was left of his patience. He had looked forward to a day of procrastination, sipping mouth wash and watching students talk during his seminar before retreating to the comfort of the vodka stashed in his freezer. The kid must overestimate his value of this job. Working was merely the result of the unbearable embarrassment of being unemployed at his age.

"You say that like you've an unending supply of volunteer assistants." Ed smiled at him knowingly.

The tapping ceased and Roy averted his gaze. Prior to the beginning of the semester, a handful of hopeful, enthusiastic psychology students approached him, wanting research experience to flesh out their graduate applications. The sweetness of undergraduates made his teeth hurt. Nevertheless, he had expected to rely on unpaid students to do the lab's monotonous work, and didn't bother requesting funding to employ assistants in his grant proposal. Apparently, though, the professionalism of other faculty members was more alluring than Roy's impersonality and hand tremors. He was alone in his quest to get published in an academic journal. He directed his eyes back to the blond sitting in front of him, ridding his mind of the thoughts. His ego was in no shape to endure memories of rejection, even from students. "If you expect money to work in my lab, I'd have to pay you out of my pocket. I'm sure I don't need to explain why that won't happen." He shot the younger man a condescending look. "Try looking for a lab outside of the institution."

"Unfortunately, the options for deviant psychology labs in Berlin are limited," Ed responded immediately, unfazed by the contempt Roy directed toward him. "I know you're a new addition to the faculty. Unless you weren't an instructor until now, I mean." An intentional jab to the insecurity Ed knew the man had about his recent change of occupation. "I've seen the course descriptions from the previous semesters," he explained. He leaned back, settling into the indented cushion on the back of his chair, displaying his vanity. "You could squeeze a lot of job security out of a dedicated student assistant in your lab. The probability of an institution terminating research being conducted on its own campus is low, but it exists. That probability decreases with every person involved in the research."

Roy chose to refrain from making a snide remark about an undergraduate trying to explain the politics of a post-secondary institution to him. He knew the value of assistants, he just didn't possess any incentive to keep his research afloat. After his termination, his life plan fell apart and he was living day by miserable day. He had no aspirations for tomorrow. He would take it in stride. "I got this job as a favour in the first place."

Ed could take a hint, but it would take more than topic avoidance to deter him. He stood. "You think it over," he suggested. "When are you available to discuss this further?"

Roy studied the features of the student's face, silent and unmoving in the office's settling dust. He examined the atmosphere of the other, rife with determination and arrogance. The prospect of working with such an overconfident personality was unappealing, but he couldn't bear the thought of letting the student depart with anything less than complete acceptance of Roy's superiority. "I leave campus at 5:00."

\---

Al felt the interior wall of the train compartment against every node of his spine. The thin fabric of his sweater protected his diminishing, scabbed arms from the sights of the other public transit passengers. The energy he put into suppressing his shakes was exhausting. Rebound effects gave him chills and he felt his ankles quiver inside his oversized denim trousers. His unsatisfied appetite ate away at his remaining body fat, but his dependence consumed his survival intuition.

Turning to drugs was a mistake. Every addict knows that. But it seemed so harmless at the time, and it only took one mistake to ruin Al's life. Once the initial damage was done, it was almost impossible to cease the eradication. It's almost humourous, the way humans tend to believe they're immune to the consequences of risky behaviour. And, like a sick joke, those consequences were often irreversible. He'd try to take responsibility, say that he only had himself to blame, but he didn't feel like his body and mind still belonged to him. He had turned into a flesh casing, filled with destruction from the substance's sadistic entertainment, a slave to its allure.

In an effort to rehabilitate Al, Ed limited the amount of heroin he supplied his brother each day. The intention was good, but it didn't suppress Al's elevating tolerance, and he began doing his only available work to load his private stash. Thus, he obediently answered the calls of a man willing to pay for Al's business. Satisfying the man's yearning and lust turned into an affection so genuine it chilled Al to his bone marrow. He wasn't the type of person Al would either befriend or avoid under normal circumstances. Their exchange relationship transformed into attraction. They needed each other to support their respective needs. For Al, it came in the form of a drug fund. For the john, it came in the form of the touch of another warm body. Co-dependence blossomed into mutual devotion.

If there were a medal for narrowly dodging death's touch, he'd wear it with pride. Nobody knows how good the high is until they crash, and nobody recovers from the first crash. You either suffered or you tried to nurse yourself back to a functional state with more heroin. If you chose the latter, you crashed harder, and you kept shooting up and crashing down until your skeleton was shattered into a fine powder and your mouth was full of loose teeth. Before inhabiting Ed's rented room, when Al was prematurely ejected from a rehabilitation centre, he would move in with the two people who provided him with his first hit. There was no way out of the addiction, but misery loves company.

One starts to lose track of time when he spends extended periods on the floor of a cold house, paid for and maintained by Giselle's boyfriend. Giselle herself was usually found between Al and Driscoll, a trio of friends brought together by their shared habit. Most conscious moments were spent recklessly breaking each other's skin with the end of a filled syringe.

They say overdosing on heroin is one of the most pleasant ways to die. Al chose to believe that, convincing himself that Giselle's death was as euphoric as the high that caused it. Waking up to find yourself next to your dead drug buddy was an experience Al couldn't describe. His continued substance abuse after witnessing Giselle's overdose was even further from comprehension.

Driscoll's death was undoubtedly less enjoyed. He and Al fled after finding Giselle's lifeless body. It was a cruelty toward her boyfriend, who was left to discover his partner dead in his own home, but panic takes a toll on one's compassion. They took refuge east of the Spree river, in the house of some guy Driscoll knew. That arrangement lasted one week filled of mourning and chemically induced highs, until Driscoll and Giselle's heartbroken lover were both dead. Al knew it was an act of vengeance for introducing Giselle to heroin and abandoning her dead body. Immediately after hearing the news, Ed drew Al into his home, like a theft victim salvaging his remaining belongings.

Emptied of his former dignity, Al bridged the gap between the train and the station's floor, the number of a motel room scrawled on the back of his hand.

\---

A depressive episode is difficult to explain to someone who's never experienced one. Even then, individual differences impact one's perception of the emotional turmoil. Vato was unfortunate enough to have a personal experience with the disorder, but even at his age, his vocabulary was too limited to accurately describe the incident. It began devouring him in June of last year, and he was officially impaired by the next month. He felt an ominous, suffocating body of darkness encompass his being and his life. It soaked through his skin and pooled in the hollows of his collarbones. He watched his former hobbies and pleasures melt into it like sugar in boiling water. He stopped eating and he stopped sleeping, but his former sleep cycle wasn't replaced with any other activity. If Marlowe was correct when he said Hell is a state of mind, Vato was convinced that he had died and gone there.

The most unforgiving aspect of a depressive episode is that it can strike anyone. There's no predisposition, which is a shame, because the sheer contrast of the depression and his former lifestyle made Vato's episode that much more obvious. His previous persona was tender, caring and wise; his current persona was none of the above. He felt lost, wandering the world, trying to find his misplaced happiness but not knowing where to look.

Initially, he could fake his way through public interaction without arousing much suspicion, but it soon gave way to the overwhelming urge to spend his entire life indoors, alone. He ceased contact with his friends and they stopped calling. He avoided work until he ran out of sick days. His long-term girlfriend reached the limit of her patience and left him. He didn't blame her; he would leave himself, too, if only he knew how to.

There were plenty of institutions offering a helping hand, but social implications made reaching out difficult. Elderly people are more vulnerable than others to depression's most devastating symptom, but the public tends to cluster clinical depression with female, angst-ridden teens, not established and educated middle-aged men like Vato. Seeking relief, he was guided to a self-administered treatment; one he could keep confined in his home, away from the public's judgmental observation. He dabbled in a few forms of destructive behaviour, but self-injury provided the most immediate gratification.

In the beginning, he would drag the point of a thumbtack across his skin. It would appear as a reddened scratch the next day, but all evidence would be gone afterward. That transformed into stubbing lit matches onto his skin and beating blunt objects into his joints. There was a need to punish himself, and this was the most effective punishment he could muster.

It was so fucking shameful. He knew a grown man shouldn't spend his afternoons trying to shatter his kneecap with a hammer. Surely, there were better and more rational means of dealing with the pain. But the edge of a razor gave relief that Vato couldn't deny, and he opted to wearing long-sleeved shirts throughout the summer months.

It all contributed to a feeling of hopelessness. Hopelessness is a demoralizing sentiment. It's an invincible weed that sprouts deep in your core and snakes through your body, constricting your organs, binding your limbs. It's no wonder he spent so many hours in his dim bedroom. Responsibility and recreation were easy to forget when he didn't feel in control of his own muscles.

Eventually, the wave crest breaks. Suicide seemed like the only option. Even some of the most severely depressed people retain their desire to survive and refuse to think seriously about suicide, but Vato lost that desire somewhere along his plummet into the bottomless pit of depression. As he slid the razor through the scar tissue on his forearm, he idly wondered if a deeper cut would further penetrate his self-loathing. That ideation transformed into a new prospect: Why should he rely on self-mutilation to alleviate his mood when he could completely abolish his mind instead?

Vato didn't know regret could be felt so instantaneously. He wasn't an optimist, but he felt the suicide attempt (and the frantic emergency telephone call that followed) allowed him to regain control over his psyche. That control evaporated when he was forcibly institutionalized.

The behavioural therapy didn't accomplish much. The SSRI was worse. It nullified his persistent aching, but it also numbed out every other emotion. The agony was gone, but it wasn't replaced with euthymia, like he had hoped. His sex drive went through the floor. He felt anxious to do nothing in particular. In a way, the artificial state of mind built by the drug was a level of Hell even deeper than depression. Depression, at least, provided emotional predictability.

He managed to go back to his job after the unexpected leave. That stroke of bliss was the least fate could do for him, after what he had put up with. But his post-attempt work was insultingly ironic. He gave university students advice on how to plan their futures when he nearly threw his away. Every meeting, he considered revealing the brutal honesty about life; to tell the students that the world is a dark fissure and their life is going to shit and the future isn't any brighter. He compressed that compulsion underneath the sole of his shoe.

These days, he knows better than to walk along the edge of life's cliff tops. He was saved from impending death, and he was genuinely grateful, but even his suicide attempt wasn't enough to make him appreciate existence. Since he made a promise to himself to not die by his own hand, life had turned into a waiting game. He idly watched the sun rise and set, wondering when death from an outside source will consume him.

Then, a few months before the beginning of Freie's 2008 winter semester, a blond ray of sunshine penetrated the rainclouds that obscured Vato's vision. When Ed entered Vato's office for the first time, he offered more than his identification card and his transcript. He was the foothold Vato needed to climb out of the crater filled with his misery.

That foothold wasn't found immediately, however. Vato had essentially given up on life, and he refused to let the hope of a new romance deceit him. Then, the meetings got more frequent and less formal. Vato realised he would purposely digress to squeeze out extra, precious minutes of Ed's company. One morning, he discovered that there was no battle involved in getting Ed to spend time with him. The mutuality made his declining laugh lines crease.

Ed, never one to be subtle, was first to open up about his affection for the man. Vato, on the other hand, was not as willing to admit infatuation when it involved another man a fraction of his age. But ever since the departure of his former significant other, he hadn't expected to find another person infusing his mind during every waking minute. There was something about the way Ed carried himself - his arrogance was alluring, his confidence was attractive and his immaturity was endearing. It appears that opposites really do attract.

When Ed approached him and asked to meet him off campus, Vato could see a glint of nervousness deep in his pupils, but he hid it well. Vato spent two hours before the scheduled date cleaning his flat and pacing his living area, sweat coating his palms. Ed was fashionably late, as expected, but his punctuality improved as the private meetings got more frequent.

Most of the sex with Ed was an exploration of his body, trying to map each of his sensations; just feeling. Vato rarely removed his clothes in Ed's presence. Clothing felt like a security blanket, and the prospect of revealing his scars hurt him more than the feeling of a candle's flame blistering his skin. Even without the scars, the SSRI made Vato's ability to maintain an erection unreliable. He was content with the satisfaction of bringing Ed to climax.

For the first time in months, Vato used his bed for more than restless sleeping and wallowing in pity. The lovemaking revealed a side of Ed that Vato didn't expect, and it revealed a side of himself that Vato didn't even know existed. Vato would drink in the life radiating from Ed's naked body underneath him, and Ed would gaze into Vato's eyes, silently communicating. Through this, they lavishly revealed the details of their devotion to each other, interrupted only by the friction of Vato's thumb pad against the head of Ed's cock, and the curling of Ed's toes. In a well-choreographed action, he would trail his lips down the groove between Ed's abdomen muscles, and Ed would card his fingers though Vato's brittle hair. Vato would lower himself, enclosing his mouth around Ed's member and gripping his hipbones. Ed would wither underneath him, fisting the bed's fitted cover. His breath would be heavy, sprinkled with the occasional moan, and he would drag his fingernails across Vato's shoulder blades. Vato would slide a firm grip along Ed's shaft, lubricated with his own saliva, and suck on the hardening flesh of one of Ed's nipples. Vato's pace would increase, and Ed's vocal pitch would rise; Vato's muscles would quiver, and Ed's back would arch.

In these moments, their gender similarity and the age difference was absent from both of their consciousnesses. Social mandate evaporated as soon as they slid between the sheets of Vato's bed. "My life begins when you're here and ends when you leave," Vato would whisper, before capturing Ed's earlobe between his teeth in post-orgasmic bliss, and Ed would respond with, "Every privilege is a blessing."

A blessing, indeed. Vato could pinpoint the exact moment in which Ed unintentionally taught him the meaning of life. Suddenly, everything fell into place. It was all a learning experience. He realised that life wasn't about finding your own happiness through superficial means. It was about the satisfaction of being the source of someone else's happiness. Vato's self-harm quickly ceased after his first night with Ed, but the scars remained.

Unable to spend enough time together outside of Vato's working hours, Ed established a home in his office. His visits were frequent, stopping by either when he could spare the time or when he allocated time for Vato's sake.

Such a time was now. Vato reached forward and took one of Ed's hands in both of his own. He held it, palm downwards, and caressed the tops of his fingers, feeling his obtruding knuckles and the ridges of his cuticles. He turned the hand over and slid the younger man's sleeve up his forearm. He traced a prominent vein down the inside of Ed's wrist, savouring the smoothness of the skin. He could remember when his own skin was that smooth, flawless, and youthful. He released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "You only get one body," he began to reflect, but faltered when he realised he was speaking impulsively. He cleared his throat. "It's not expendable or replaceable," he continued. "People tend to underestimate the value of their bodies. They don't take care of themselves. They damage themselves. Some damage is . . . " he paused, considering his next words. "Beyond repair."

Ed opened his mouth pre-emptively, prepared to facilitate the unfiltered response he normally relied on. When he drew a blank, his lips curled and he laughed gently. "Why am I only ever at a loss of words when I'm with you?"

"Perhaps you have too much practice giving sarcastic and hostile remarks. You're not used to responding kindly to someone who shows you compassion." Vato released Ed's hand from the confides of his own and returned his limbs to his half of the desk.

Ed begrudgingly moved his hand from where Vato left it, missing the feeling of being touched by something other than his brother's cold, desperate grip. He rested his clasped hands on his lap. "Not many people show me compassion, especially recently."

Vato smiled lightly at Ed's bitterness, but disdain was absent in his expression. "Do you know what the self-fulfilling prophecy is?"

Ed pouted slightly. Vato's right. He's always right about this stuff. "It's difficult to be polite to people," he said, "given all the stress I've been dealing with lately."

Elaboration was unnecessary. Vato knew that all of Ed's problems revolved around one person. The air in the office suddenly felt heavier. "How has he been doing?"

"About the same," Ed said, monotone. Regarding his brother's condition, improvement was unexpected and corrosion was unsurprising. The only astonishing thing that could arise out of his situation would be a hair's breadth of progress in sobriety. "Couldn't I force him into a rehab centre or something?"

"Only if he's a threat to himself or others, I'm afraid."

"He's destroying his soul." Ed felt exasperated. "Isn't that a big enough threat?"

"Interestingly enough, to mental health professionals, a destroyed body is more significant than a destroyed soul." Vato chewed the inside of his cheek, uneasy with the conversation's direction. "I'd know," he finished, awkwardly.

Ed frowned, upset with himself and cursing his habit of speaking before thinking. That was a topic he was better off avoiding. He craned to glance at the clock on the wall behind him. Time always seemed to move too quickly in Vato's company. "I don't want to sound like I have a quota to meet," he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence and turning back to face Vato, "but I might have to transfer some of my time with you to another day. I have a job interview tonight."

"What does the job involve?"

"Whatever I'm needed to do, I guess." Ed shrugged, a nonchalant expression forming on his face. "I'm not picky. Sleeping on pavement isn't an attractive notion." He sighed and slouched forward to rest his folded arms against the edge of the desk before him, and cradled his head there. "Sometimes I just get discouraged," he murmured, "when I considered how small this planet is, compared to the universe. Humans concern themselves with making money, but it seems so trivial in the big picture. Capitalism is such an isolated concept."

"I think your unemployment is just making you unhappy." Vato was an expert in unhappiness, after all. "Try selling your old geochemistry textbooks. I could probably make use of some."

Ed scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Did you run out of fire wood?"

Vato chuckled. "Listen." He reached forward and traced the hairline on Ed's forehead, running his fingers through his bangs. "If life is meant to be fulfilling, and a career can provide someone with that sense of fulfillment, is it really so trivial, even considering the vastness of the universe?"

"That's assuming a career can fulfill every person. For the rest of us, work is just a necessary hurdle to obtain our own brand of fulfillment." Ed pried one of his hands from underneath this chin and rested it on the desk's surface.

Vato laced his fingers between the digits of Ed's offered hand, and the two men cherished the texture of each other's skin, listening to the sound of the Earth turn.

\---

Income was the only motivation Riza had to get through the workday, but sometimes her exhaustion hindered her ability to accomplish even that. She stared at the words of a document set on the desk in front of her, treading through the thoughts overflowing her mind. Lately, she was a cognitive mess. Walking into rooms and forgetting why she was there. Waking up to the sound of her own screams and being unable to identify the nightmare that roused her. Having to read a single sentence multiple times to absorb the gist of its information. Sometimes, she wondered how she was even able to navigate from Jean's car to her front door at the end of the day.

Her impairment certainly didn't spare her bodily health. Initially, being diagnosed with hypertension was a mild annoyance. Riza shouldn't have to be worrying about that shit until she was elderly, assuming she managed to survive that long. However, once the consistent dose of the diuretic drug inhibited her physical body, she had a whole new list of medical complications to report to her physician. Eventually, she required secondary medication to cope with the side effects of her primary medication until she was downing a prescription cocktail every morning.

The idea to use her prescription collection as an extra source of money sparked when Riza found her savings account empty. Years of studying medicine may not have gotten her a job, but it did give her a talent for faking symptoms. Previously, she would have never thought she'd be selling a handful of Adderall capsules or a bottle of Xanax to tweakers and avid workers. Today, Riza found it challenging distance herself from that clique. A chronic gambler has no right to pass judgment on those who choose somatic maltreatment for comfort. "Could you drive me to the pharmacy tonight?"

Jean raised his head to look at Riza, interrupted from organizing the stack of belated registration forms before him. It took him an abnormally long period to decipher Riza's question. Due to a lack of nicotine intake, agitation and mental disorganization was a common consequence of spending too much time indoors. "Sure thing," he said, forcing a smile. He bowed his head again and continued visually scanning the papers. He was thankful for any excuse to visit Riza's office and occupy the neglected chair across from hers. He just liked to ensure she had someone to talk to. Today's blessing came in the form of delivering a stack of documents. "What'd you sell this time?"

"Epiklor."

"I didn't know there was a recreational demand for potassium supplements."

"I try not to think about it."

Surprisingly, Jean proved to be a good actor. He was already taking medication for hypothyroidism; it wasn't difficult to ask him to play up the side effects. He reluctantly agreed, and after just a few complaints of insomnia, Riza had a steady source of Temazepam to sell. Malingering wasn't something Jean typically condoned, but he was willing to go as far as participating in it to ensure Riza didn't get evicted. He stood and handed the completed forms to Riza.

With a word of thanks, Riza took them between her fingers and returned her hand to the surface of her desk. She began to wade through her thoughts again, and quickly forgot about Jean's presence.

Jean looked down at his colleague, aware of the uncomfortable stillness that filled the room, accompanied only by the ticking sound of a nearby clock. He was familiar with Riza spacing out like this, but witnessing it never got easier. "Are you going to be alright tonight?"

"Yeah," came her predictable response. Vulnerability was not a characteristic Riza showed often.

\---

Fortunately, Roy managed to consume enough alcohol during the afternoon hours to smother his cravings. Unfortunately, he was unable to act sober enough to hide his intoxication from others. He spent the day hoping that nobody would find him drunk and dysfunctional.

So when someone entered his office unexpectedly at exactly 5:00, interrupting him from the warmth of his buzz, he was unable conceal his annoyance. He glared toward the opened doorway. He scanned the figure standing there, trying to match it with one of the individuals in his memory. It didn't look like Jean. He also deduced that it wasn't Jean's frigid bitch of a girlfriend.

"Hi again," the entity said, taking a seat in the vacant chair across from Roy's desk, joining him in his closed office's security.

Oh, the kid. Right. Roy felt the dull pain behind his eyes intensify and he looked away, furrowing his brows. Intoxication and sobriety were two separate worlds. After a few drinks, it was difficult for Roy to recall the events of the few morning hours when he was hungover. Slowly, the memory of his earlier conversation with the student began to trickle into his mind. He didn't have the mental vigour to deal with him at the moment.

Ed sat in silence, calmly waiting for Roy to organize his thoughts. He was not unfamiliar with the company of someone under the influence, considering he lived in the same room as a heroin addict. He had assumed the predicaments of Roy's life would lead him to some type of coping mechanism. Looks like alcohol was his poison of choice.

"What's your name again?" Roy inquired, slurring slightly.

A small, patronizing smile graced Ed's face. "Ed."

"Ed." Roy hoped he'd remember that long enough to complete this conversation. He hadn't thought about Ed since their previous meeting, and he was still torn about whether he wanted to see him again. Roy had spent his adult life surrounding himself with weak-willed people because they were easy to control. Even so, he wasn't one to deny a challenge. He didn't expect to become a long-term employee at the institution, but if he did, he wouldn't dare have his first workday plagued by some egotistical kid's arrogance. Forcing him into submission would be simple enough. The incentive was well worth the work put into breaking him. He lost his train of thought and looked at the man across from him, curiously. "You remind me of myself," he said quietly, a reflection slipping from his mind and out of his mouth.

"Hopefully you're referring to a time when you were my age. Otherwise, that's just insulting." Ed's smile remained, a belittling gesture framing the malice of his words. "I know about you, you know. Word gets around. It takes a special kind of failure to get fired from BfV."

Roy felt his jaw clench and his glare hardened. His heartbeat hastened and he felt his alcohol-infused blood pump more quickly throughout him. Almost automatically, he stood and approached the seated student.

Ed stood as well in an act of defiance, reducing the distance between him and Roy despite their height difference. Ed congratulated himself. It was too easy. "Did I hit a nerve?"

Roy placed a hand on Ed's shoulder and roughly pushed him back down into the chair. He glared down at him, contempt secreting from every pore. He hated thinking about his old job, and he despised others bringing it up. Using it to insult him was unnecessarily callous, even by Roy's standards. The kid must have known it was a sensitive subject. Roy reached forward and grabbed Ed's jaw, forcing the younger man to look at him, his numb fingers applying more force than intended. "What are you trying to achieve?"

Ed tried to mask his fright. He hadn't been prepared for a physical confrontation, and he was only skilled in dominating others mentally. He sharply turned his head to dislodge it from Roy's grasp, and returned to face him with an insincere and vindictive smirk. "Just making conversation," he shrugged.

Roy shoved his hands into his trouser's pockets to restrain them, knowing better than to allow himself to spontaneously do something he'd regret. The fingernails of his fists left indents on his palms. "I used to work under this misanthrope. Some Austrian fuck." He paused to dredge the name from his memory. "Ketterle," he spit the name out with disdain. The agonizing recollections he tried to drown with alcohol crawled back up his throat. "If it didn't result in bad publicity, nothing would have happened, and I'd still be working there. His reputation was more important than my career. He said it would be easy to replace me, and apparently he was correct." Roy fixated on the Ed's throat. Slowly, he removed a single hand from the confines of his pocket and pressed his fingers against the front of the other's neck. He drug his fingertips down to the base of neck, capturing Ed's collarbone and the curve of his shoulder in his grip. His digits dug into muscle tissue and pressed against bone.

"We don't have to get along to work together." Ed thanked his voice for not breaking, and his stomach twisted in nervousness. The other man's touch felt like hot iron. Out-running a drunk man would be easy, but Ed felt frozen, unable to escape. Submission wasn't a feeling he was used to, but already knew he didn't like it. He straightened his back, every move carefully considered and executed. "But I accept your position's authority."

Satisfied, Roy relaxed his grip. He might have won this power struggle, but he knew maintaining power was more important than achieving it. "You've got a lot to learn about my authority, kid."

Ed felt the sharp sensation of offense prod at his core. "I'm not a fucking kid, douchebag - "

The feeling of Roy lifting his hand from his shoulder interrupted Ed's words, and Roy inserted a thumb into the other man's mouth, holding his tongue against the bottom of his mouth's cavern. His remaining fingers cupped Ed's chin, gripping his tongue and lower jaw with a single hand. Roy smiled slightly, feeling the warmth of the other's mouth, the edges of his teeth, the way the flesh of his lips stretched. It had been too long since he invaded someone else.

When Ed collected himself from the unexpected violation, he pried himself away and instinctively cowered against his chair. Preserving physical confidence was difficult when someone else introduced himself into your body's cavities without permission. "Sadistic asshole." Ed suppressed a shudder, still tasting the other man on his tongue. "I thought sociopaths targeted weak characters."

"Taking advantage of a strong personality like yours is so much more rewarding."


	3. Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Heymans surveyed the interior of the rented dispatch car provided by Berlin's law enforcement, the scent of take-away and cigarettes permanently embedded within it. Raindrops fell on the roof and the sound echoed through the vehicle. Lit streetlights produced a glare on the wet surface of the asphalt. Rain water filled the potholes imprinted in the asphalt, leaving behind ripples that couldn't survive a full second before succumbing to the ripples of another drop.

He missed the feeling of his own car, finely adjusted to suit his operating preferences. He liked order and familiarity, and he had a low tolerance for change. Even the texture of the rental's shift knob was different enough from his own car to irritate him. He reached down and grasped the adjuster and slid his seat back along the track, trying to recreate a comfortable distance between the wheel and his stretched abdomen.

To his right, Kain shifted his sitting position in the passenger seat. "Does it ever stop raining?" He looked through the car's windshield and at the cloud-filled sky, wondering if sunlight still existed behind it. "I swear, the rivers are going to overflow and flood the city."

Kain was mousy and a bit awkward, but he was pleasant enough to be around. Heymans couldn't know if Kain's pleasantness extended to his private life, however; Kain was so secretive about his lifestyle outside of his work that Heymans could be convinced he lived at the police station if he didn't regularly watch him leave work early. As a friend, Heymans enjoyed his company, but as a coworker, he had to mask his disappointment when their superior forced them to work together. The magnitude of Kain's freeloading would have cost anyone else their income long ago, but his coworkers liked him enough to let him get away with it.

But Heymans rarely allowed politeness to overshadow his honesty. "Forecast says that the weather won't be any better this evening. Sounds like a perfect opportunity to put in some overtime."

Kain nervously rubbed his upper arm. The guilt resulting from the amount of work he missed and he projects he regularly neglected was suffocating. "I have an appointment tonight."

"Is it a date?"

Kain flinched. "No."

Heymans scoffed. Kain was as transparent as his lenses. He could practically smell the infatuation drenching his being. "What's her name?"

Kain's stomach lurched and he nearly choked on his own tongue. Heymans didn't get his investigatory job for no reason, but, for once, Kain was thankful for society's heteronormativity. "Let's get this done," he almost whined. "I'm freezing."

Heymans slid the case folder from the car's dashboard and flipped it open. "The victim's name is Immanuel Ketterle. He worked in management at BfV." He reviewed document, separating the pages with his large digits. "It was an intravenous administration," he mumbled. "Kind of a weird combination. Potassium chloride, sulfolane, and an opiate. It forces cardiac arrest. He was found in his loft building's underground parking garage."

"Killing a man in a public space takes a good amount of bravery," Kain reflected. He picked at the thread of his trousers. "Who are we speaking with this morning?"

Heymans started at Kain for a beat. That pronoun didn't go unnoticed. He turn a few pages over and systematically scanned the contents of the page he fell on, searching for a name. "Roy Mustang. He used to work under Ketterle. He got fired because he was caught drinking on the job one too many times."

"So you think he killed him?" Kain struggled to rationalise murder, but using job termination as a motive seemed especially trivial.

"Some people are serious about their careers." Heymans closed the folder and dropped it back onto the dashboard's surface. He propped an elbow on the ridge of the car's door, and rested his cheekbone against his knuckles. "Besides, he killed a man in self-defense last year. Premeditated murder shouldn't be that much of a stretch."

Kain looked past Heymans and gazed at the complex across the street. He squinted to look through the translucent layer of fog between the structure and the vehicle. "Are you sure he's still in there?"

"We'll be fine. Apparently, he has a habit of arriving at work late." Heymans gave Kain a look that bordered on belittling.

Smiling sheepishly, Kain shrunk into his seat. "Sorry. I guess he and I have that in common." He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Frankly, I don't even think you need me here."

"Do you think the both of us would be too intimidating?"

"I just don't think the good-cop-bad-cop shtick will work on a former BfV employee."

Heymans turned toward the complex, watching as the light behind a few of the windows unlit with the departure of the occupants, beginning their weekday routine. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain. "Okay. I'll go."

"I'll hold down the fort," Kain said and waved him off. He settled into the sanctuary of the car, filled with warmth and the mechanical smell of an overworked heating system.

"Right." Heymans swung the car door shut and began his journey to the complex.

\---

Riza caught herself from nearly tripping down the stairs of her building as she descended to the lobby. She awoke in a cold room under a threadbare blanket, and skipped breakfast for the third time this week. Everything hurt. Her heel pressed painfully into the sole of her shoe and her clothes hung heavy and loose off her frame. She noted that the front door felt unusually rigid as she pushed it open, but relief washed over her as she recognised a familiar car upon exiting the building. She approached it, ignoring her body's aches, and opened the passenger door.

"Hi there," Jean greeted Riza as she entered the vehicle. He examined her outfit and smirked. "Missed laundry day again?"

Riza returned the smirk with considerably less enthusiasm, almost bordering sarcasm. "The luxury of a diverse wardrobe isn't worth the price."

Jean handed Riza the daily newspaper, already opened to the printed winning lottery numbers. He pulled out of the loading zone as Riza clutched the paper with a grip just a tad too tight. "Are you feeling lucky?"

"As lucky as I've ever felt." Riza trapped the newspaper between her hands and her lap. "Is it okay if I start your day with a complaint?"

Jean pursed his lips and rubbed his stained index finger against his thumb. "Go for it."

"It turns out you don't know your friend as well as you let on. He didn't show up to his seminar yesterday."

Jean cursed under his breath. He should have dropped by Roy's office yesterday to ensure he made it to his classroom. His presence was necessary, even if Jean couldn't make him to do anything more than take up space. "Is it bad that I'm not surprised?"

"No," Riza said, releasing a slow sigh. "But expecting something like that from the person you vouched for is a bit concerning." She shifted her gaze to the passenger window, absent-mindedly watching buildings and pedestrians pass. "I know you warned me. I don't blame you. Hell, I blame myself."

"Don't blame yourself," Jean responded without delay, his voice laced with minor aggravation. His friendship with Roy was absolute and unyielding, but Riza didn't deserve to take any responsibility for his negligence. "It's his fault."

Riza shook her head somberly. "I can't perform miracles, Jean. He's beyond digging his own grave. He's practically built his own coffin at this point." A line formed between her eyebrows in frustration. "I won't be able to protect him if he keeps fucking up like this," she informed him.

"I understand."

"His second and final chance is this afternoon," said Riza, and her theism made a rare appearance as she silently prayed that Roy wouldn't be a disappointment again, though she was more concerned about Jean's emotional stability than Roy's employment. "Wanna bet on whether he'll show?"

"I don't think you need any more bets to keep track of."

Riza couldn't help but chuckle, despite her body's diminishing energy. It's been a long time since laughter escaped her spontaneously, and the mirth felt unnatural to her. "You'd make a lousy gambler."

\---

Roy's regular hand morning tremors had spread to his shoulders, and he sneered at the citizens waiting on the transit platform around him. Roy had lost his license and his car after earning a DUI the previous year, which came about six months later than he expected, considering how well-practiced he had gotten driving drunk. Morning transit commutes were a good opportunity to grope young boys on crowded trains, but no liquor shop within walking distance of his flat was open early enough to get his blood alcohol content back up to a tolerable level. Now, he stood in the cold train station, hungover, and in danger of losing balance and falling onto the tracks. He pointedly stared down any person who seemed to notice the stench of liquor wafting from him.

Despite the odour, since awakening, Roy hadn't consumed more than a few mouthfuls of vodka left over from last night, and with withdrawal was distorting reality. The pavement didn't feel even. The digits on his left hand were swollen and slightly numb. Any sudden movement doubled his vision. That morning, he tore apart his kitchen, but eventually had to accept that he had already drunk all of his liquor. He foot tapped against the floor in a quick rhythm as he waited for Jean to get out of bed and answer his telephone. Roy ordered him to bring booze to campus, any fucking kind, he didn't give a fuck, and hung up before Jean could voice his objections.

Roy had never been so anxious to get to work. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket. He had told himself that he was in control, that the liquid meant nothing, and that he could quit when he wanted. And he believed himself, until he tried. Unexpectedly, the bottle had found a permanent home in his grip and it obscured the light at the end of his tunnel. Alcohol was hardly addictive; it was the normality that came with it that Roy couldn't function without. There was comfort in the routine of pulling a bottle from the freezer every morning, spending the day with a foggy head and a perpetual ringing in his ears. A day without alcohol felt too unnatural. Something was missing. The world didn't feel right.

He would have stifled his laughter if he had any humiliation left. The world hasn't felt right for almost a year.

The train pulled up against the platform and he glared at the interior through the doors. He was the last to board. Every other passenger parted to avoid brushing against him, but also refused to look his direction.

\---

Ed hurled himself into Vato's office and gracelessly threw his textbook on a nearby empty chair. He walked around the desk to Vato's division. "The anticipation of seeing you is the only thing that gets me through my classes. My head was about to implode listening to that shit." He raised his legs, knelt on either side of Vato's thighs and rested on his lap, straddling him.

"You were so eager to switch majors - " Vato forgot what he was saying when he realised he had a lap full of Ed. He hooked his hands under the younger man's arms and carefully lifted him back on his feet. "Not in public, and especially not at work."

Ed huffed dramatically. "Then cancel your appointments and let's go to your place."

Vato smiled fondly. "I'm not as young as you anymore, kid."

Ed's momentarily stopped breathing and he brought his hand up to his chest and clasped them together - a small but very clear gesture of defense. "Don't call me that," he mumbled, took a step back, and sat on Vato's desk.

"I'm sorry, my angel," Vato responded, reverting back to a more trusted pet name. He gently pried a hand away from Ed's body, uncurled it, and placed a peck on each individual fingertip. "How was the interview?"

Ed's lips formed a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "It was great." His face dropped. "Anyway." He turned and began flipping through a stack of folders on Vato's desk. "What has work been like?"

Vato took the folders from Ed's and tucked them into a filing cabinet. "I can assure you my work is less interesting than your classes."

Ed tapped his fingernails against the wooden surface he sat upon. "I don't mind. Introductory courses are akin to watching paint dry."

Vato reached forward and placed his hand over Ed's, ceasing the tapping. "What's been bothering you?"

Ed felt a pang of offense, and he let it show on his face. "Do you think I only talk to you when there's something bothering me?"

"You've certainly never had a lack of energy, but you're only this restless when there's something on your mind that you don't want to talk about."

Ed wanted to avert his eyes but he forced himself to maintain his stony stare at Vato. He was young, and probably naïve, but he's not weak. He felt that he trusted Vato enough to tell him anything, but he would still never let himself rely on another person to solve his problems for him. "Do you ever fantasize about creating your own utopia?" he asked. "Would you buy me an island somewhere so I can monitor who lives on it and ensure nobody corrupts it?"

Vato uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, trying to understand the reason behind such a drastic change of topic. "You know I'd buy you anything I could afford, but your very own invite-only society probably isn't one of them."

"There must be some way. Some people deserve to exist more than others." Ed raised his eyebrows at Vato expectantly. "Right?"

Vato had spent years believing that exact statement, but hearing it from Ed made it wretched, too awful, like it was unnatural for such a voice to create those words. "Objectively speaking, do you think you're in a position to determine who deserves existence?"

"Not me." Ed paused. "Not only me," he quickly added on.

"What's got you thinking about this?"

"It's hard to pinpoint one thing."

If Ed was going to settle on that non-answer, Vato would provide one for him. "Is it your brother?"

Ed shrugged. "I didn't inject the first hit into him." He began to tap his fingernail into the desk again. "But I feel like I could have saved him if I had done a better job protecting him from the people who introduced him to the drug."

"You're getting better at not blaming yourself, but you're still assuming responsibility for what's not your fault." Vato groaned inwardly, realising how parental he sounded. When he discovered that Ed was born five years after he graduated, he had to sit down and catch his breath. Thus, Vato tried not to lecture too much - it was only an uncomfortable reminder of the age difference.

"Do you think methadone is the answer?"

Vato shook his head solemnly. "Not without the willpower to eventually stop using. The answer is probably to find the internalised problem and work from there. Mental anguish eats away at temperance and it's hard to consider future consequences when the present is so painful. An ultimatum would be more promising than methadone."

Ed returned a head shake back to Vato. "I can't make myself do that after I almost lost him."

\---

Roy would think Jean had no experience with dealing with addicts if he didn't spend so much time with that cunt who runs the department. He fulfilled Roy's request and brought a travel carafe filled with a mixture of gin and water to campus, along with a package of breath mints, but made Roy promise to attend his seminar before he handed them over. Roy just nearly resisted cursing him out, telling himself he needed to behave if he didn't want to spend the day without booze. He went through the motions, but knew the seminar wouldn't be a part of his day as soon as he took the first swig. He may have obliterated any hope of Jean providing him with actual alcohol in the future, but he wasn't afraid of losing Jean's financial support. He only needed to ensure he didn't run out again. Until then, he could survive on half a litre of watered-down gin, even if it only slightly dented his withdrawal.

He hardly had time to recognise the sound of his office's door opening before it slammed. Goddamn, to a hungover man, that sound is louder than an atom bomb. He looked up and his eyes locked with Riza's. She looked furious, capable of silently expressing more anger than any human should, and Roy nearly winced. That woman could stare down a serial killer. He returned his gaze to his desk. "Can I help you."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Riza's voice was smooth, but undoubtedly fueled by rage. "Didn't Jean tell you that skipping another seminar would be a dangerously stupid idea?"

"Sounds like something he'd say," Roy mumbled.

Riza scoffed and her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. "Does your shamelessness ever get embarrassing?"

"Does your bitchiness ever get exhausting?" Roy's snapped back. His irritation added a sharpness to his voice. "I've only just started working here and you're already making me want to quit."

"You'll get fired before you can quit," Riza snarled. She clenched her jaw hard enough to hear it crack. "Look. I'm not disillusioned enough to simplify addiction to the point of telling you to stop drinking without treatment, but I'm not interested in the plight of a white, cisgendered man, so stop moaning."

"The only unmentioned minority group you social activists like to throw around happens to be the one I belong to." Roy propped his elbow on his desk and let his wrist fall limp. "Does that rouse any empathy from you?"

Riza glanced at Roy's wrist and knitted her brow. "No, considering anti-feminism is a foundation of heterosexism. You're not going through anything I'm not, and you're kidding yourself if you think it's the reason for your fast-approaching termination. You'll get my empathy once you earn it."

"My hatred for you has nothing to do with your gender or my sexuality." Roy took a deep breath and released it slowly. "You've got some nerve, you know, to talk to me about my drinking habits while ignoring the role of my enabler. And you call yourself a psychologist." He paused to pointedly clear his throat. "Excuse me, psychiatrist."

The surface of Riza's skin felt frozen in contract to the rapidly boiling blood it encased. She chose to not respond to that jab and and risk implying acknowledgement. "Functionality is merely a stage of alcoholism," she continued, "and you're beginning to phase out of it."

"You ought to know." A leer stretched across Roy's face. "What's the cost of counterfeit casino chips lately?"

Riza bunched her fingers into fists and the pitch of her voice dropped. "Don't compare yourself to me. I invested years of work and didn't get anywhere; you had everything and fucked yourself." She paused and listened for movement outside. The walls may not have ears, but they were paper-thin. "Jean may have rose-coloured glasses glued to his face, but you're not fooling me. This is just a big joke you think you can afford to make. And you can, thanks to him."

"And until he grows a backbone, I plan on spending every Euro he transfers to my savings account on booze," Roy finished for her, and smiled with a forged sweetness.

Riza's took a breath, but immediately thought better than to respond. Winning an argument is worth nothing when it's against someone so immature. "I let you go the last time. But that's the last time." She turned and exited the office, focusing on the sound of her heels against the tile to drown out any response, letting her last words solidify like drying cement.

\---

Al knelt in the middle of the motel room's bed, naked and unashamed, but his lack of clothing made it impossible to ignore his track marks. He longingly eyed the jumper on the motel room floor while he picked at a scab on his forearm. Al hadn't been a junkie long enough to be an expert on shooting up, but the pathetic state on his upper limbs was obvious to even the cleanest person. The veins in his inner arms were damaged beyond repair and bordering uselessness. "Fuck."

"Language, boy."

Al turned toward the motel's washroom doorway and smiled at the man occupying it. "Sorry, daddy."

The john left the washroom with a full syringe and placed it on the bedside table along with a bottle of personal lubrication. He loosened the cuffs of his dress shirt and removed his glasses, putting them next to the syringe. "Do you need it, or can it wait?"

"I've been yawning twice a minute."

The john frowned, but nodded. The boy could usually get erect while high, but that was about the limit of his sexual performance. He grabbed Al's wrist and manipulated his forearm upward, pressing a finger against the inside of Al's elbow. "Flex for me."

Al suppressed a groan and clenched his fist.

"Oh, sweetheart . . . " the john admonished and placed his fingertip against Al's skin, marking a vein, and turning around to retrieve the syringe. "Might have to start using your femoral." He sat on the bed next to Al and flicked the air bubbles out of the syringe before tightly wrapping his fingers around Al's upper arm. He placed the tip against Al's skin, lining up against the vein he marked, and Al looked away.

To Al, the initial skin breakage was well worth the high that came seconds later. It began between his shoulder blades and seeped down to his feet. It shouldn't be possible to feel this good. The human body wasn't designed to withstand this much bliss. It's strange. When he's crashing, he'd tell himself to stop using; the high isn't worth the eventual low. But experiencing the high is pleasurable enough that he couldn't make himself think seriously about kicking the habit, even with the knowledge that each shot took a grain of sand from his hourglass.

Al pressed his body against the man's, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, trying to absorb each other's essence. His heartbeat synced with the one emitted from the chest against his ear. He could feel the tenderness and passion seeping from the other being, diluting the stale ambiance of the motel room. Al sighed as he leaned into the hand running through his hair, stroking his scalp. If Heaven is unique to each person, this eternal moment was definitely his. Every second spent with a combination of this man and this drug was paradise, with or without sexual activity. "Can we spend the night here?" He looked up into the man's eyes, resting his chin against his chest, unwilling to weaken their embrace. "You won't have to pay extra."

The john cupped Al's face with both hands and ran a fingertip from his philtrum to the corner of his jaw. "I think your roommate would worry about you." He pressed his mouth against Al's, holding it there briefly, and then licking at Al's lower lip until the boy parted and allowed entrance.

Al began to explore the john's mouth as well, though much more timidly, only moving his tongue past his lips when the man allotted enough space. One hand left his head and he felt fingertips walk down his spine, slightly but noticeably more rushed as they neared the base. Al exhaled contentedly when the man's palm rested on one of his cheeks and those fingertips began to tease at his hole. He felt the man break the kiss and his mouth suddenly felt uncomfortably empty.

"I'll tell you what I like about you."

A fingernail circled around his entrance, scratching slightly, coaxing Al to push back against it, yearning for more stimulation.

"Most rent boys go limp. They let me do whatever I want to them. They don't tend to have any preference or reaction. Most of them are only gay for pay."

The hand began to knead and squeeze hard, pulling the skin between Al's cheeks taut and giving him the smallest feeling of being stretched that made his cock throb.

"But you've got a personality. Right?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Yes. That's why you're daddy's boy. And that's also why I don't like fucking you while you're high. Daddy enjoys seeing his boy come."

Al felt the warmth of the hand leave his ass. A protest began to form in the haze of his mind, but the john pushed him back onto the mattress roughly enough to force the air out of his lungs. He felt lips trail down his chest and stomach, moving down to his groin, leaving a chaste kiss on each freckle. The familiar heat was then felt on the backs of his knees.

"Legs up, little whore."

Al's legs bent and his thighs pressed against his stomach. Such a vulnerable position made him whine, low and needy. One hot, wet trail of the john's tongue ran along his cleft, from the base of his spine to his sack. He tossed his head to the side and the cheap fabric of the bed's sheets scratched at his cheek's skin. His muscles felt like liquid and his mouth hung open because his mind was too overloaded with pleasure to consider closing it.

The john retracted his tongue enough to slide a lubricated finger around Al's hole and dipped it inside. He had enough experience with male sexual organs to know exactly how many centimetres to push inside, and Al bucked when he pressed against his prostate on the first attempt.

The high felt good enough, but prostate stimulation while on the drug was more pleasure than he could handle. Al reached down and clutched the john's hand, but the sensation was too overpowering to do more than weakly push against the hand. His breath quickened, short and shallow inhales. He clawed at the surface of the bed and the fitted sheet slid off a corner of the mattress. "Can't," he tried to close his legs. "Too," a gulp, a whimper, "can't, daddy." The fingers slid out of him and he rolled over onto his side. His entrance felt too stretched, and too empty, and he clenched and released involuntarily. Finally, he filled his lungs and exhaled slowly.

"Too much of a good thing."

Words of agreement formed in his mind, but they got lost somewhere along the pathway to his vocal chords. He felt his legs be repositioned and spread open again. He heard a packet open, and a thin layer of latex wrapped around his cock.

"Daddy knows what his boy likes."

The warmth that enveloped his member was euphoric, but not as aggressively pleasurable as the earlier penetration. His hips rolled once, but the john pinned him down securely enough to prevent another. He was hyper-aware of every sensation. The way the latex tightly embraced his foreskin; the brush of the other's skin against his pubic hair. He went rigid. His own moans sounded far away and distorted, like he was submerged in water. He felt his tear ducts begin to leak, his lungs were filled with fire, and the spackled ceiling went out of focus, but his climax was out of reach.

The john removed his mouth and wiped the lubrication off the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's not going to happen tonight, is it?"

Al tried to apologise but the high hindered his enunciation and the words came out sounding like dejected mumbles.

The john rose from his position on the floor and palmed himself through his slacks. He reached down, trapped one of Al's hardened nipples between his fingers, and tugged at it. He undid his trousers with his free hand. "The sounds you make are enough to get me hard," he said. He climbed on bed and knelt next to Al's head. He grabbed Al's face, turned his jaw, and rubbed the head of his cock against his lips.

Al was on the verge of nodding off but the salty taste and musky scent of his mate's crotch pulled him back into the present. He parted his lips and granted access. The member slid past and was almost immediately forced against the back of his throat. Even if Al had more experience with oral sex, he was too unprepared to restrain the gag that the invasion brought out of him. He tried to turn away, but the john had a strong hold on his jaw, and he began to pump in and out of Al's mouth, reaching further down this throat each time, testing the boy's limit. Al heaved with every thrust and he felt cooling saliva pool in the crevice between his cheek and the sheets. His own cock had gone soft, and getting face-fucked wasn't the ideal way to spend his high, but sex is money. Money is tomorrow's fix. Tomorrow's fix is survival. He squeezed his eyes shut and studied the shapes behind his eyelids. The mantra didn't have the same coping effect during a trick as it did during withdrawal.

The john pulled out and Al took advantage of his empty throat to breathe deeply and orally. The first shot of semen landed on his forehead, and disgust and relief flooded him.

Al liked to keep his eyes closed after every trick, but the sounds were constant and memorized. The zipping of trousers, the whine of the sink's faucet, the shuffling of bank notes. Every time the john came down from his climax, he would apologise to Al. 'I didn't mean to be so rough,' 'You know I get carried away,' whatever, Al stopped believing it a long time ago. Every sexual deviant is the same. The words were routine and the soothing tone made Al begin to nod off again. The promise of a lift home barely registered, and the door shut before Al could object.

\---

Roy pinned Ed mercilessly, keeping him trapped between his own body and the hardwood floor of his bedroom. He knelt on the younger man's lower limbs, his shins pressing painfully into Ed's thighs. Roy's hands wrapped tightly around Ed's throat, restricting his oxygen, and peeling away the layers of Ed's resistance. He smiled proudly. It was almost too easy, coaxing the boy into his home with the promise of a job he was clearly desperate for. The kid had his chance to fuck off and leave him alone; he deserved the consequences of his harassment. "You know," he said, "over-simplifying morality is a sign of cognitive underdevelopment."

Ed dulling efforts to push the older man off him became futile. His grip around Roy's assaulting wrists weakened as his vision darkened, and he felt his consciousness waning.

"Unfortunately for you, I don't mind adopting a completely polarized conception of morality, even if I'm capable of understanding its exceptions."

Just as Ed was teetering off the edge of reality, Roy released his grip. Oxygen rushed into Ed's body, burning his throat like smoke. He gasped and coughed, unable to inflate his lungs quickly enough.

Roy backhanded Ed, unwilling to let the younger man suffocate on his own sputtering. He leaned forward and reached into his bedside dresser, fishing out the half-empty bottle of rum he had bought on his way home. "Don't need you dying on me, kid," he said as he unscrewed the cap of the container. "I have enough skeletons in my closet." He tilted the plastic bottle upward and swallowed a mouthful.

"I'm not a kid," Ed gasped between desperate breathes, his voice rough from the recent rush of oxygen crammed into his lungs. "And you're a sick fuck."

Roy chuckled and set the bottle on the floor, a hollow sound emitting between the glass and the hardwood. He reached for Ed's neck again, roughly smacking Ed's defensive hands away before returning his grip around Ed's throat, focusing on applying pressure to his Adam's apple. "It's all your fault, isn't it?" he slurred. "A boy your age should know better than to go home with a stranger." Roy released as soon as he felt Ed's body go limp and he watched him twist and gasp underneath him. He took a long swig of the bottle but denied his insatiable desire for alcohol long enough to wrench Ed's jaw open and deposit the second-hand liquor into his mouth. Stroking the top of Ed's neck firmly enough to compel him to swallow, he couldn't help but drunkenly chuckle when Ed turned away, winced, and hissed. "For a college student, you're quite the lightweight." He ran his open palm up the side of his torso, purposely alternating pressure to dig his fingers between each protruding rib. "Must be due to how thin you are." Tightening his hand into a fist, he delivered a blow, colliding his knuckles into the most bony part of Ed's chest.

Ed ground his teeth together to resist groaning in pain. Well, at least the asshole was right about one thing. Ed preferred to believe that he could take care of himself; emotionally, Ed was solid, and Roy would never be able to break more than his bones. But his physical weakness prevented him from throwing the larger man from him and fleeing.

Roy lifted Ed, feeble and oxygen-deprived, by his hair and pulled him into his flat's washroom at a pace barely slow enough to prevent the stumbling boy from tripping.

Once Ed inhaled enough air to facilitate proper hand-eye coordination, he propelled his fist into Roy's stomach, but his knuckles collided with the metal buckle of his belt and the softness of his bloated torso. The dismal impact left Roy unaffected.

Roy delivered a second backhand, this time letting go of Ed and throwing his body into a nearby wall. "I dare you to try that again." He pulled Ed into the washroom and dropped him onto the floor. On his way down, Ed's head stuck the porcelain edge of the bathtub and dazed him.

Roy kicked the side of Ed's body hard enough to force the boy to roll on his knees and shoulders to instinctively protect his abdomen from further abuse. Such a position left his legs exposed and Roy kicked the inside of his thighs until they spread. Taking advantage of Ed's stunned state of mind, Roy unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them halfway down his thighs. He pulled open the drawer of his vanity unit and recklessly fumbled through it until he found a box of Vaseline, knocking a bottle of cologne off the counter in the process.

Ed attempted to prop himself off the floor, stabilizing himself with his palms, but he immediately collapsed under the weight of Roy pressing him back down.

"Quit struggling. Fuck, you're a stubborn one," Roy said, as he pressed the back of Ed's neck downwards to the floor. "Shoulders down."

As soon as Ed felt the weight lift from his back, he mustered enough strength to lift his upper body on his elbows, but it wasn't enough to crawl away. The weight instantly returned to his neck and his arms buckled. He collapsed back onto the floor and the corners of the tile dug into his shoulders.

"What did I just tell you?" Roy pressed one of his kneecaps into Ed's back to keep him against the floor. "You're a slow learner."

Ed let out an embarrassing yelp upon feeling Roy's cold fingers prod at the skin around his hole. The intrusion was painful but the loss of control hurt more. Ed could feel the man's member force its way into him, force his body to conform around it, and bile threatened to release itself from his throat. He could handle the verbal abuse and the manhandling, but entrance into his body was the ultimate humiliation. He had lost, and that was hard to admit. Ed felt the tears lining his lids gather and begin to fall. He buried his face in one of his wrists, allowing the skin to absorb the fluid. Roy already stole his pride; he would never allow himself to leave this flat with his tears on the man's washroom floor.

Roy struck the back of Ed's head with an open palm and let a low groan escape his throat at the feeling of the boy clench around him. His right hand traveled down the front of Ed's body and gripped his semi-erect cock briefly before Ed pushed Roy's violating hand away. Roy chuckled, "I knew you were a faggot."

"You're the only faggot here," Ed managed to gasp out.

"Rape is about power, not sex," Roy corrected. He thrust into Ed a dozen more times and pulled out. He lifted Ed onto his shaky feet, drug him over the edge of the bathtub, and dropped him inside. The boy's recent blow to his head kept him disoriented enough that he was unable to climb back out before Roy twisted one knob of the double faucet.

The freezing water expelled the breath from Ed's lungs and he felt frost coat his exposed skin. The pain was more intense than any of the other abuse he went through that night, but his body locked up and the shock prevented him from doing more than shiver and gape against the tub's floor.

Roy crosses his arms and leaned against a nearby towel rack, watching Ed wither. "You're young," he voice carried over the falling water, "so let me tell you something about life that you've evidently not learned yet. The human race is a disease on this planet and we're not progressing as a species. Do yourself a favour and give up on the social sciences; your lifetime isn't nearly long enough to inspire any social development, even in central Europe. I drink myself to sleep every night, I do fuck all at work, and I still get enough money to live comfortably." He grinned. "And I can tell you it's not because my existence is a decent contribution to this world." He reached back into the shower and turned off the water.

With his shirt soaked through and his skin coloured pink, Ed rose his head and looked at Roy through his wet bangs. His chest was starting to cramp from the physical mistreatment, but he had never felt more angry or defeated.

"Get out of my place. You can use my phone to call a cab."

"I don't have any money," Ed snarled.

That brought a laugh out of Roy, but for once, it was out of pure amusement rather than ridicule. "Looks like you're walking."

\---

Riza had told Jean that the only plans she had for the night was clipping coupons, but he still fumbled over every word of his invitation to dinner at his place. He rationalised that she needed a proper meal, but Riza still asked if it was a pity date. Jean had never felt his ears get so hot so quickly, and although any amount of romance with Riza would make him ecstatic, he was quick to deny such a motive.

The front door of Jean's flat opened into his kitchen, and they didn't even make it out of that room before Riza asked for a drink. He opted for wine, white, and his concern for Riza's hypertension hung in the air like second-hand smoke until he drank enough to ignore it. They had conversed and joked in his kitchen while the premade chicken sat in his refrigerator, but when Riza's happy, he's happy.

"I can't feel my feet," Riza said through a breathy laugh, gripping the edge of the countertop to support herself until she regained her balance and refilled her glass. Jean's flat was habitable, but only slightly. Only one of the burners on his stove was functional and the heater couldn't compete with Berlin's climate. "One day, I'm going to win millions of Euros and give you everything you've given me, as well as a new flat."

Jean watched Riza sip at her drink. He had noticed Riza's habit of chewing her bottom lip during stress, and the skin there was chapped and scabbed over. Her smile split the wounds open, but Jean figured it was a small price to pay for her rare display of cheerfulness. He returned the smile. "You don't owe me anything."

"You treat me like glass, Jean, but I'm too flattered to feel demeaned," Riza told him. She placed a hand on Jean's shoulder.

Riza's touch sent a current throughout Jean's body, even through the fabric of his cheap dress shirt. That was a better reaction than he had expected. Riza didn't normally know how to handle affection when she was given it, so flattery was a welcome response. "How's your heart?"

Riza's smile faltered. "Fine."

Jean's smile fell completely. "You should take your medication."

Riza narrowed her eyes. She took hold of the wine bottle again and overturned it into her glass, refilling the single mouthful she had since swallowed. She stared into it long enough for the liquid to settle. "Do you know what it's like to suffer from your own debt?" she asked. "Each morning, I wake up with a blank mind, and for a few blissful seconds, I feel like a normal person. And then everything comes flooding back - I'm broke, I have education credentials I don't use. I compensate for my occupational disappointment by chasing my gambling losses and relying on a nearly untouchable statistic. It's always the worst feeling, having that illusion of normality taken from you so quickly and so often."

Jean stayed silent. He swirled the wine in his half-full glass.

"Socrates said that excellence brings about wealth and not vice versa, but no amount of wealth-bringing excellence could deter me from Hell. A stroke of luck and effortless opulence is all I'm hoping for."

Riza's flash flood of vulnerability was distressing to Jean. Although her exterior appeared tough and autonomous, it was thin ice, and pressure shattered its weak points. "But do you ever think about what life would be like if you never achieve that?"

Riza's eyes dropped and she curved her shoulders. "Every day," she whispered, and she pulled her bottom lip back between her teeth.

\---

Berlin being a tourist attraction is proof that people are able to construct any reality they desire. Heymans stood at the river bank, cell phone in hand, and re-dialed Kain. He grimaced at the foreigners one block over, too loud and obnoxiously happy to ignore. Where they saw some fanciful landscape that they spent a year's worth of pay cheques to experience, he saw filthy water and moss growing up the side of the concrete, man-made bed. 'This is my life,' he thought to himself. 'These are the people I've vowed to protect.' The recording of his partner's answering machine sounded through his phone and he snapped it shut.

Heymans entered law enforcement intending to help those who needed it; he always was the selfless type. During training, when he was younger, he fantasised about bringing justice to Berlin's citizens, doing good, being a hero. He wasn't unaware of the world's evils, but he yearned to be part of the faction that stopped them. That cloud's silver lining ended up being razor-sharp. Being immersed in so many cold cases - knowing of heinous crime without having a perpetrator to blame - kept him awake at night more than his apnea. He realised that he was happier reading about such atrocities in newspapers because, then, he was detached. He spoke about it without taking responsibility. But now that he works in law enforcement, he felt accountable for every misdeed that occurred in the city. And it left him feeling empty.

Carbohydrates was the most convenient filling for that emptiness. They acted as a buffer, protecting his dwindling self-worth from the onslaught of his disparity. He had learned how to forcefully swallow even the most unappetizing matter; as long as it was edible, he would consume it. He wasn't able to fill his emotional emptiness, but he'd easily fill his empty stomach. Voraciousness became the greatest joy in his life. He felt like he was magnetically attracted to food, but he suppressed his cravings until he's alone in his house, doors locked and curtains drawn. The public equated being overweight with controlled laziness and unnecessary self-indulgence, and even though he knew they were incorrect, their misconceptions about obesity made Heymans feel more worthless than his job did.

The full-length mirror propped against his bedroom wall had suffered almost as much abuse as his body. Scrutinizing his physical appearance was a sick obsession - hurtful, but an obligation. He had memorized the feeling of every stretch mark across his stomach. He knew the exact location of each patch of chafed skin. He could anticipate the amount of perspiration that would secrete from his glands during any physical activity, however mild. Every night, he would pull himself into a fetal position on his mattress, curling in on himself as much as his body's mass would allow.

It's not about gluttony. Gluttony would be an urge easier to overcome. It's about filling an emotional emptiness with a tangible stuffing. Although the melancholy would never cease, it could be swathed by a steady intake of calories. Eventually, his body got used to the increase of food, and his appetite adjusted. He didn't remember what hunger felt like, but he was also immune to the normal feelings of satiation.

There are little things Heymans dislikes - the way his inner thighs brush against each other, the consistent knee pain, the heart palpitations, the high cholesterol. It took months to get used to sleeping with a continuous positive airway pressure machine. But all of these annoyances combined didn't make overeating any less appealing.

Heymans tried to call his partner for the third time that hour and discovered his phone was still turned off. He suppressed the compulsion to throw the mobile into the river.

\---

Although Riza had drunk roughly the same volume of wine Jean did, she was at a fifty pound disadvantage and undeniably less nourished. Jean lead Riza, stumbling and half-awake, to his bed and removed her boots, but decided that touching any other article of clothing would be too intrusive.

The attraction Jean exhibited toward Riza was subtle, and non-demanding, but also non-mutual. The logical part of him knew that it would never be reciprocated, but the desperate part of him continued to hold on to the hope that she may change her mind about their relationship's level of intimacy.

Jean liked to flatter women, but Riza wasn't the type of woman to appreciate such implied patronisation. She growled at men who held doors open for her, and she always had a sharp-tongued retort for anyone who made a misogynistic comment within her earshot. Meanwhile, Jean had old-fashioned expectations for his domestic future. He wanted to buy his wife flowers every week. He wanted her to take his name when they married. He wanted to work while she raised their 2.5 children at home. But he knew Riza would never tolerate such a lifestyle, and he was uncertain about how to reveal his feelings in a way that satisfied both his conventional ideals and Riza's rejection of traditional gender roles. He trailed his hand from his scalp and down the back of his head, to the tip of his hair, coming to rest on his sternum. Here. It hurt most here.

He held contact on the light switch for a full minute, staring at Riza's sleeping body, before flipping it off and exiting his bedroom. Already developing a headache and beginning to crash, he groaned, threw himself on his sofa, and removed the nearby telephone from its hook.

\---

Roy already knew he was going to Hell, so one layer deeper wouldn't make much of a difference. The impressionability and malleability of young boys fed his hunger for power like nothing else could. He rolled his eyes and sipped his glass of undiluted vodka. It's typical; he gets older and those little fuckers remain the same age. Catharsis is a crutch, and Roy likes to get everything he desires, but there's no underaged boys in prison, and child pornography will keep him away from the law longer than statutory rape would.

The scene was the usual: A man who looked almost twice as old as Roy and a cute, skinny twink. The really depraved, violent type that he loves, produced by people with no qualms about beating young boys during sex until they cry. As long as Roy had the knowledge that such pornography was available, nothing short of it would hold his interest.

The glass slipped through his fingertips, and the sound of shattering glass pulled Roy out of his drunken haze enough to notice the vibrating cell phone against his leg. He mourned the loss of the pool of alcohol at his feet, slowly enlarging and spreading across the hardwood, the shards of glass reflecting the minimal light in his flat. While a deep inhale, he glanced at his phone's display, but he couldn't focus his eyesight enough to read the incoming number. He answered. "Yeah."

"Can you tell me why the police force wants me to answer a few questions about you?"

Roy emitted a bored grunt from his core. He shut off his monitor and walked to his bedroom. A concerned Jean was the greatest turn off. "I had to deal with them this morning. As if I wasn't bothered enough in 2007."

"What did you tell them?"

Roy let out a laugh, hollow and humourless, and flopped onto his bed. "Do you want the truth or do you want something that will make you feel better?"

"Roy . . . "

"Relax. The police are easy to manipulate. It just requires a certain amount of moral ambiguity. If I'm not worried, you shouldn't be." He turned his phone off and didn't bother turning himself onto his stomach before falling asleep.


End file.
